


Straight Into His Maker's Arms

by Spitfire007



Series: The Mad King Anthology [3]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: M/M, Side Story, mad king au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 01:46:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1180448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spitfire007/pseuds/Spitfire007
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Side Story of A Simple Souvenir of Someone's Kill. The castle servant who told Mogar they had seen Ryan being escorted to the castle dungeon had unknowingly unleashed a raging beast from his cage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Straight Into His Maker's Arms

Mogar’s hands are bloody and blistered from his climb up the white wall that surrounded the King’s castle. The drawbridge had been lifted which left him scrambling for a way in. He had been frantic on the other side of the deep moat. Pacing back and forth, growling under his breath that he would kill every person inside if Ryan had received a single scratch. The castle servant who told Mogar they had seen Ryan being escorted to the castle dungeon had unknowingly unleashed a raging beast from his cage.

The Northern General and his personal guard had never been separated for more than a day and Ryan had sworn to him that they would never again spend a night apart. Mogar was going to make sure that promise was fulfilled if he had to tear down the wall with his bare hands. As he had gazed upon the gleaming white stone in the moonlight, he knew that nothing could keep him from getting to his General.

He had unwound the black strips of cloth that were usually wrapped around his lower legs and tighten them around his hands, securing his two daggers into each palm. He knew that he could jump the moat, he had made much longer leaps before in his training but getting up the wall proved to be very difficult. However, the ferocity with which he launched himself at the wall meant that his knifes had stuck securely into the grooves between the stones.

The ascent was slow, far too slow for the teenager whose heart felt as if it was going to pound right out of his chest. Horrific images played inside his head as he climbed. He saw Ryan being thrown into one of those cold dark cells as he moved the right knife into another slot in the wall. He saw Ryan spitting blood from a hard punch to the face as his left hand slammed the dagger into place. They would pay. Mogar would make sure of that. He envisioned painting every single stark, white brick red with the blood of those who had wronged Ryan.

But he knew, the first person to meet his blade would be the king’s bastard, Geoff. The love loss between them ran deep. The only time Ryan had ever shamed him was when he didn’t open his empty palms in greeting when he first met Geoff. The customary Northern greeting showed that you meant no harm, which was not how Mogar felt toward the king’s bastard. He wanted to make sure that Geoff knew he did not care what kind of power he had. Mogar did not bow to someone who disrespected the General. He killed those who even mumbled a cross word about him. He firmly believed that Ryan should have been king of this worthless land.

On the other hand, from what the servant had said, Mogar knew that the old king was no more and that Geoff had claimed the throne. The servant had told him that Ryan had been accused of the crime and was being led away. Maybe Ryan had killed the King; Mogar didn’t really care about that. What he cared about was that Ryan was in danger.

The loud click of his left dagger hitting the top of the castle wall meant that Mogar had made it. For a split second, his shoulders feel as if they are on fire from having to hold so much of his weight, but as he peels the cloth, sticky with blood, off his hands, a new pain awakes. However, his time is limited so he makes quick work of pulling them off and then heading across the tunnels on top of the wall. The sad fate of every guard that is standing lazily or sleeping is brutal as Mogar dispatches them quietly. His bloodlust only seems to build, however, as he makes his way down the ladder and into the courtyard. It is unusually empty, the merchants and servants that usually frequent the place should count themselves lucky that they didn’t dawdle too long in the courtyard that night. But it’s emptiness meant that Mogar could make his way unnoticed across the expanse, and into the castle proper.

Mogar had spent as little time in Wetiakker as humanly possible over the last five years, but most of the time he had been in Wetiakker was spent in either the dungeons or the council room. And he’d spent no time at all in the private chambers located on the highest level of the castle. But Dan and his suspicious nature had required Mogar to memorize the layout of Wetiakker in the event of an invasion, coup d’etat, or assassination attempt. He only takes two wrong turns on the way to Geoff’s chambers.

The door to his room is open and the moment Michael steps in, Geoff is immediately up and moving toward his sword. He’s far too slow with his long suffering ankle and forgotten training. Michael rushes across the messy bed and has his sword on Geoff’s throat before Geoff could get within arm’s reach of the weapon.

“H-he’s in the dungeon,” Geoff stammers instantly, his eyes flicker from the sword to Mogar’s eyes every few seconds.

“If he’s hurt in any way--” Mogar begins but Geoff is already shaking his head.

“He hasn’t been injured, I swear.” Geoff all but shouts interrupting the young warrior. The murderous intent on Mogar’s face is even more terrifying when framed in the moonlight.

The last time Mogar had been this full of rage and fear was during the sacking of his village. Before that, it had probably been when his parents had sold him into serfdom, though he doesn’t remember most of that. The river town he was sold into had been vulnerable to Northernborn raiding vessels. In the years before the truce, long before Mogar was born, the North had survived off of raiding the river towns. Many of the people who lived in those towns were harder than the rest of the Southborn, and as such, they were prone to more grievances and rebellion.

Mogar had heard about it from the house boys and girls who would occasionally venture down to the barracks of the land working serfs in order to gossip and, in some cases, have sex. The landowner as well as other men and women in the village were upset with the taxes. They disapproved of the power given to the newest general by the king. Mogar, only ten at the time, hadn’t understood the turmoil taking place. He hadn’t known that they were planning on refusing to pay taxes. It was only a matter of time before the restless villagers caused some sort of strife.

Regardless of the reasons, it ended in dark ships sailing into port, loaded with Northernborn soldiers. The newly minted general, Ryan, in his infamous red cloak, had walked into the fray and laid countless villagers to waste. They were on strict orders that were shouted over the battlefield as a reminder. Leave _no_ survivors.

Michael had hidden at first, stuffed behind building materials in the workshed. But as the screams grew louder and closer, he cursed himself for a coward. Peeking tentatively out of the shed, he caught sight of a sword abandoned on the ground. One of the villagers must have had one hidden despite the South laws forbidding peasants from owning weapons.

He raced toward it, but was met by a hulking Northernborn soldier. “So the boy wants to fight for his life,” the burly Northernborn had remarked, as he bent over and handed Mogar the sword. “You’re brave, but stupid,” he’d said, as Mogar weakly hefted the sword.

The Northernborn drew his own sword and Mogar looked at him critically before correcting his own stance, it was a little easier to hold the blade then. “I’m sorry to see a child with such spirit die,” the man said just as he swung his sword. In that moment, something inside of Mogar shifted and his sword was light as air, he somewhat knew what to do. He deflected the strike sloppily, barely escaping damage. But as the man swung more, Mogar found it easier to notice the blocks and strikes he needed to take. The hulking Northernborn stepped back, cursing in the old language of the North. He attacked once more, but found himself flat on his back as Mogar’s sword had came straight for his legs.  If he hadn’t made an awkward jump to dodge the strike, his legs would have been completely severed.

Mogar felt terribly tired after. The weight of lifting the sword made his arms feel as if they were about to fall off at the shoulders. But as a second Northernborn approached, he felt the shift happen inside of him again. Mogar couldn’t believe what was happening in front of him, but this time his blocks were much tighter leaving less of an opening for his opponent. His strikes were still not clean, but they met the Northernborn warrior’s blow for blow. He still hadn’t inflicted any damage on him though. However, when the man seemed to lose his focus, Mogar leveled a swift kick into his crotch causing the man to crumble in pain.

The sword’s weight grew again making it feel as if his hands were going to be crushed into the ground by it. His eyes focused instead on the damage done to the village. There were various bodies scattered around as wooden houses burn fiercely around him. The ash and burnt debris fell slowly down onto the scorched earth. The sunny day seemed as if it was in a fog from all the dark smoke surrounding it. However, the one thing that unsettled young Mogar the most was the silence. There were no more voices talking about what they were going to make for dinner tonight. The piercing screams had even disappeared completely as if they hadn’t happened at all.

He was the only one left.

Another Northernborn walked toward Mogar with a solemn expression on his face. “Don’t think we take any pleasure in this, little one. You have been very brave, but we have orders and they must be done.”

Mogar swallowed. His shoulders hurt from the force of his swings, his arms trembled slightly from being so tense, and his fingers ached from how tight they were around the sword handle. The new challenger’s steps were slow as if he was deeply reluctant to land the fatal blow. Lifting the sword, Mogar took his stance to begin the next fight. The Northernborn attacked, but Mogar’s ability had only seemed to improve. After only four solid blocks, he caught the Northernborn so badly off his balance that Mogar landed a deep wound in his attacker’s thigh.

“Second, be careful.” The wounded man called as a new man stepped forward. Unlike the others, he carried two swords. This Northernborn caused a terrified shutter to shake its way down Mogar’s spine. He’d been lucky until now, fueled by fear and fury, but he was almost positive that this was where he was going to die. At least he didn’t die as a coward, he thought to himself as the man stopped in front of him. The Northernborn pulled out one blade and shifted it slightly in his hand before lifting it up to take the final blow. Mogar knew that he wasn’t going to be able to counter it, the Second looked as if he would have already calculated what his next move would be.

“Step away,” a voice called and Mogar was left feeling impossibly exhausted; ready to collapse at any moment from the strain of battle. But a much larger fear entered him as he stared at the approaching form of the General of the Northernborn. “I’d like to speak with this boy.”

The two-sworded warrior stepped back as the General walked toward him. The infamous red cloak wrapped around the General’s shoulders gave away his identity. Mogar watched as the General sheathed his sword as he took a few steps closer. His turned his empty hands toward the young boy. There were a few splotches of drying blood on them from the countless murders he had committed in only a span of a few minutes. “I mean you no harm,” he said, and his voice was calm but upbeat.

Mogar doesn’t know why he trusted the General’s words, but he let the sword drop between his legs. Maybe he was just too drained to fight on anymore. The General was standing directly in front of him now. He’s much taller than Mogar would have imagined from all the stories he had heard. Mogar swallowed again as the General bent down to pick up the sword next to his feet. The young boy’s eyes never left the blade. Turning it in his hand, the General inspected the weapon. “Where did you learn to use this?” His eyes locked with Mogar’s causing the boy to take a step back out of fear. His heel connected with something solid, and he peeked tentatively behind himself. The Second was standing behind him.

“Answer the General,” he said, the rose crest on his tunic was stained red with blood but his voice was soft.

Mogar opened his mouth to speak, but he couldn’t find his voice. The General bent down then, placing the sword on the ground between them. “Did your father give you this sword?”

“N-no,” he finally managed to get out. The General raised his head to look behind Mogar. It got the small boy’s attention and he suddenly realized that he was completely surrounded by Northernborn. His heart beat raced even more.

“Dan, get him some water please,” the General requested. The Second frowned slightly, but turned away and broke through the crowd. “Now, about this sword, what can you tell me?”

The General’s attention moved back to Mogar; who swallowed before trying to still his shaking hands. “I just found it. I didn’t want to be killed like everyone else.”

“Which is understandable. Who taught you how to fight?” Dan returned then, handing the General a canteen of water. He passed it to Mogar who took several gulps of the cold water. “That’s better, right,” the General asked and Mogar nodded.

“No one taught me how to fight. We aren’t allowed to have swords.”

The General frowned slightly, biting at his lower lip for a second before responding. “Were you a house servant?”

“No, sir, a farmhand.” Mogar watched as the General stood then. His gaze was on the Second, Dan, which caused Mogar to worry that Dan was about to be given the order to end Mogar’s life.

“Well, it looks as if there aren’t anymore farms to work here. Though I think you would make a much better warrior than you would a farmer,” the General commented, laughing quietly to his self over the thought. “ I’m sure you have sailed on a ship when you were sold here, but I promise you that your next ship voyage will be more enjoyable. Follow me.”

Mogar’s eyes widened as he looked around the large group that had settled around them. He expected the other warriors to argue with what the General had said. He wasn’t a Northernborn. Their children began learning how to handle a sword as soon as they could stand. Mogar had only just touched a sword a few minutes before. Why didn’t they protest the General’s idea?

“The General gave you an order.” Dan said, pushing slightly at Mogar’s back. He tripped slightly over his own feet before looking back to where Dan was following behind him.

“Do I need my sword?”

“No, we will provide you with one,” the Second answered flatly.

“And Dan will be training you with that new sword,” the General grinned as he stepped onto the ship. Mogar looked to see Dan’s expression, worried that the Second would instantly resent him as a new burden. Dan only reached under Mogar’s small arms and lifted him up to be placed in the ship. The General’s strong hands took him easily, settling him down on the wooden floor next to him. Mogar reached out then, taking a small fist full of the General’s red cloak in his hand and hoped not to be yelled at for it. He just needed something to steady his racing mind. The General doesn’t say anything only looked at Dan who rolled his eyes slightly.

“Maybe we can stabilize your hands. Fix your atrocious grip,” Dan simply commented.

Mogar’s hands shook then, but now his sword is steady and firm as he presses the blade against Geoff’s throat. Whimpers are falling plaintively out of Geoff’s mouth, but Mogar has heard people beg for their lives before.

“If he is wounded in any way, I’ll ---,” Mogar bites out, jerking on the hair grasped in his fist.

“Y-,” Geoff stutters to a stop, his face ashen with fear. His throat has closed and, as such,Geoff is choking down on his words Mogar knows; it happens frequently. “Yes,” Geoff says clearly, but his eyes are glossed over with the beginnings of tears. Mogar knows he grins even as he sees Geoff struggle not to let the them fall.

“Well, I’m going to clarify my promise to make sure you understand,” Mogar says and he presses the sword close enough to Geoff’s neck to watch the skin around it go white from the pressure. “If my General is injured, you cowardly piece of Southern shit, I will flay you open. The last thing you see will be my face, and I’ll be smiling.”

He pulls his sword back from Geoff’s skin and watches a thin line bead red blood, sluggish to rise to the surface. “I’m glad we could come to an understanding,” Mogar says, flashing a quick smile that he knows involves too much teeth. It’s one he knows that Ryan loves because it looks ruthless. When he shows it to Ryan, he always grips Mogar’s chin and tips his head back for a kiss and he uses Mogar’s real name, his secret name. He also knows that this smile matches the open maw of the bear skin, the mouth of which rests on his head-- functioning as a hood. It’s a smile that sends armies running.

He starts to back out of Geoff’s room and sheaths his sword back at his side, deciding to instead rely on his hunting knife in close quarters. The one Dan had given him on his third day of training, the day he’d taught him how to gut fish. Mogar had already known how to clean a kill, but he allowed Dan to show him again. While Dan talked about the proper angle for the first incision, Mogar had stared at Ryan as he talked with some of the Northernborn scattered around the training grounds.

Back then, he hadn’t understood Ryan. He’d been confused by his easy, crooked smile, his simple clothing, and the calm he exuded. Soon that had turned into respect for the way he regarded his people. After that, it had built up into near obsession.

He finally understood the preoccupation that some of the other serf boys had felt. They would stare longingly across the fields and talk about the pretty maid boys and girls working in the landowner’s house. They would all talk in the bunks at night about how soft Maggie or Soren’s hands looked.

Mogar had never experienced anything like that. And then, nearly eleven, Mogar had held all of that inside of himself instead and funnelled it toward being useful to Ryan, being a good fighter for Ryan, making sure that his death would benefit Ryan. And people would always ask him, “what gives you the strength to fight like a Northernborn?” and Mogar never had a real answer. Only that before he had fought with rage and fear, at that time it had been a struggle. His anger had served him well, still did from time to time, but it wasn’t necessary anymore. Now all he had to do was think of Ryan, and killing was as simple as breathing in air.

This ease of taking someone's life meant that as he stood looking at Geoff, he wanted nothing more than to end his life. A few men have tried to harm Ryan before, but none had ever lived to tell about the wounds they inflicted. Mogar could not let Geoff go so easily even if he and Ryan had a history. Geoff had immediately told Mogar where Ryan was being held the second he had walked into his bedchamber. It was useless information since Mogar had been informed that Ryan was last seen being lead off to the dungeons, he knew where Ryan was. That wasn’t what he had come for, but Geoff’s willingness to fork over valuable information only irritates him more.

However, Dan had drilled into him that he was not to kill someone of such a high rank without Ryan’s direct permission. Mogar was almost positive that Dan would have made an exception when it came to this moment with Geoff, but Geoff was King now. That meant that Ryan would have to decide his fate, not Mogar. No matter how badly he wanted to. It was not his place. Even if his murderous rage for Geoff’s blood had been what drove him into the castle in the first place. Ryan had not given the order. Also from his years of interrogating people for the King, Mogar knew that Geoff was telling the truth and that Ryan had not been harmed. However, it pained him to leave Geoff alive.

He had said what he came to say though, he stares down at Geoff one last time. Hoping that all the disgust he holds for him is evident on his face. Geoff stares back at him, fingering lightly at the small cut on his throat.

Once he’s satisfied that the extent of the damage is minimal, Geoff begins, “You wouldn’t understand. I had to do --,” but Mogar lets out a growl from deep in his throat, cutting him off effectively.

“Silence,” Mogar shouts, “I don’t care what you have to say. Just know that the only reason you breathe is because of Ryan.”

Geoff opens his mouth to try and force Mogar to hear his case. However, what comes out is a scream as Mogar’s hunting knife slices down toward Geoff’s neck. Geoff’s hands reach instantly for his throat, making sure it is still intact. He feels blood flowing freely, but the wound is lower. He knows that Mogar didn’t miss. He simply chose to inflict his damage there. It was close enough and precise enough to know that Geoff would have nightmares about it for the rest of his life.

 _Well_ , Mogar thinks as he walks out of the room to release Ryan from the dungeon, _Dan never said I couldn’t seriously wound someone of power without permission._

By the time he reaches the heavy wooden door leading down into the dungeon, his chest is clogged with rage and fear once again. It must show in his eyes because the two guards stationed lay their swords upon the ground and silently step away from the door. When Mogar takes a step in their direction, they both raise their hands, palms facing him. The Southborn guards were more than likely unaware of the customary Northern greeting.

But the symbol of respect triggers something like mercy in Mogar and he gestures with his hand for them to run, an offer they grasp at as they tumble over each other to escape. He is unconcerned about an alarm being raised, even if Geoff had an entire army with which to challenge him, they would be poorly trained. As is, only the Southern soldiers remain, some thirty at most. They would pose a weak threat to Mogar. Especially in such tight quarters.

He slides the heavy iron bar holding the other door closed to the side and pulls it open. They had apparently seen fit to leave the torches lit in the dungeon, allowing Mogar to see easily, despite the gloom.

“It’s good to see you, _Michael_ ,” Ryan’s voice calls out from the furthest reach of the dungeon. His voice-- low, deep and full of mirth-- echoes around the dungeon. Michael steps in the direction of the original and Ryan comes into view. Even on his knees, his height is apparent. The torch light glints dimly off of his hair, highlighting the strands closer to blond than brown. Michael can’t see his eyes well in the darkness, but he knows they’re that comforting blue. “I’m glad you got here so quickly, I was afraid of running out of things to do waiting for you,” Ryan laughs goodnaturedly, and Michael is so relieved. His chest drains of all rage, something that would have left him feeling empty five years ago, but now he just feels whole.

“Did they hurt you, Ryan,” Michael asks, as he jams a extra knife roughly into the lock, applying pressure to twist and bend the metal pins. He knows this is a… less than safe method, but picking locks took time. This was a much quicker method, and within seconds of applied pressure, the door swung open. It was effectively destroyed, but Michael can’t find it in himself to care. He also gave it a hell of a kick just for good measure.

Ryan smiles at him as Michael kneels down next to him to undo the rope. The Northern General can feel Michael’s hands trembling as they brush against his own. He can only imagine how emotionally wrecked the poor teenager is. It only takes one quick swipe of the hunting knife to release Ryan’s hands. He grabs Michael before he can stand back up and kisses him deeply. They don’t have much time, but Ryan would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that he had been afraid for Michael’s life as well. The young warrior melts instantly into the kiss, the weight of the world seeming to simply slide off his shoulders.

Ryan stands then and holds out his hand expectantly, and Michael diligently hands him his sword which he had been carrying on his other hip. The General steps past him a good half a foot taller. “Good job, Michael, expect a reward when we’re back at Svartrsund,” He says, tying the scabbard back at his hip. Michael looks forward to it. Ryan’s rewards for Michael usually consisted of hot baths with Ryan’s fine, foreign, expensive soaps followed by a massage. That kind of treatment Michael can get used to.

“Two hours in a dungeon is far too long, don’t you say, Mogar,” Ryan asks, his steps are firm and determined as he walks up the stairs.  

“Yes, General, far too long,” Michael replies as he follows Ryan up.

“I think we’ll be making a few changes to the hierarchy of Theron, the Southborn have grown too bold,” Ryan says blandly, and Michael grins ruthlessly behind him. Maybe he would get to spill Geoff’s blood after all.


End file.
